


The Three Charites

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Mary-Friendly, but psst it's johnlock, post-t6t
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-01 08:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10184819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mary doesn't die and Sherlock doesn't spiral out of control. His secret sibling forces him to, anyway.[S4 fix-it fic]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so. this is my s4 fix-it fic but I should warn you that a lot of things from s4 are actually here (like Eurus and Culverton Smith). it starts with Mary getting shot at the end of T6T, but the rest is just me twisting things around a little bit. 
> 
> rated M for violence. weekly updates, hopefully.  
> also, not beta'd, not brit picked. sorry about that!

"Mary!"

She heard John's voice and tried to face him. Pain shot up her body, making her gasp. She was having difficulty breathing, but that was to be expected. Her torso felt numb; she assumed she would be in more pain; that wasn't the case, though. Someone dropped next to her. She tried to look at him.

"John," she croaked. Talking was a huge effort. Her insides seemed to contract at every word. Was it really that bad? "John, take care of Rosie..."

"No," John's voice said. He was moving in out of focus. Mary's eyes seemed to be having trouble finding his face, but she could smell his cologne. It was John. She felt like crying.

He pressed his hands against her wound, and she did cry out.

"No, you're not leaving me," John said, really close to her. He was pressing her down and she felt like she had stopped breathing altogether. "Mary? Mary, look at me."

She tried. He was right above her, hair dishevelled, eyes locked on her. That was nice. He was so close. She could almost feel his breath on her. But he zoomed out of focus again, before he shouted, "Mary! Stay with me. Sherlock, get down."

Sherlock. Now Mary remembered. She had jumped in front of him. It had worked, then? She saw his tall, dark-clothed figure kneel next to her, on her other side. John was giving him instructions, but it was hard for her to pay attention to both of them at once. She felt nauseous, numb, wrong somehow. She still couldn't catch her breath.

"Hey, Sherlock," she tried, but she wasn't sure if they could hear her. Sherlock seemed to turn to her, his low voice answering something she couldn't comprehend. "I so… Like you. Did I ever say?"

"Yes," he sounded very distant, even though she could feel his body right next to her. "Yes, you did."

"Harder. Use your scarf," said John from somewhere on her right.

"I'm sorry…For shooting you that time. I think we're—” she screamed when she felt someone moving her, "even now. Okay?"

She heard Sherlock's low voice saying something back to her, but she couldn't grasp the meaning. Things were getting blurrier by the second. This was it, then. "John..."

Pain. Everywhere. She screamed again, or tried to. The air seemed to have gone out of her all at once. She was being carried, bright lights making her dizzier still. She tried closing her eyes, but John called her once, twice. She opened them again and saw him right above her.

"Don't close your eyes. Stay with me. We're almost there," he was saying, and she tried to focus on his voice. It was hard. Every tiny movement set an explosion of pain through her body. She realised she was crying.

"Being…Mary Watson..."

"Don't," John interrupted her, but she kept going.

"Was the best thing that ever happened to me."

He smiled, and Mary was so glad she was able to see that, she smiled back at him. Everything went black for a second before she felt cold, so terribly cold.

"Open the door," John said to someone else, and soon Mary was screaming again as he set her down on leather. She opened her eyes enough to see she was inside a car. Someone - John, was that him? - was at her side, still pressing down on her stomach; she heard the door closing.

"I agree," he said, and Mary realised she had closed her eyes again. They were moving, and there was a nagging sound like a siren around them. She stared at him, confused.

"What?"

"I'm the best thing that could've happened to you."

It took her a second, but the words finally sank in. She smiled, even though she had no strength to do anything other than that, and watched John smile and wipe his tears away.

 

* * *

 

 

It was all a terrible mistake.

Sherlock should have known. He had had warnings. He ignored them. All of them.

He brought Mary back from her hiding place. He called her over. He shouldn't have. Not today, not ever.

What was he thinking?

He wasn't, that’s what he concluded. He wasn't thinking, but _feeling_. He allowed himself to have friends. It had been stupid of him to think that would ever work out. To think it wouldn’t lead to disaster. He had been clean. No even the drugs could take the blame for him this time.

The building was immersed in darkness. He had been there for a while now. Just listening. Thinking. Something he had done very little of these days. It was quiet, save for the sounds of the city. He knew those already, ignored them for white noise. But it was there. London was breathing down his neck, reminding him that he was alive, awake, and guilty.

It was his fault.

 _She may survive_ , he reasoned. But how close had she been to death? She couldn't die, not now. Not when she was so happy. Free.

Had he ever known anything like that?

If she did survive, he would have to ask her what it like was. To live in peace with oneself. Truly, that was remarkable. She was a remarkable woman. A friend only someone like John could bring him.

John.

Sherlock rubbed his face again, tiredly. Whenever John came to his mind, he wanted to shut it down. Be it with a dose or with dreamless sleep, it didn't matter. John would - rightfully - blame Sherlock. He would ask him how he could endanger Mary like that. _I thought we were friends?_

No. Sherlock shook his head. He needed to stop believing he could predict John. Sometimes he could. Not right now. Not about this.

Especially not if Mary died.

He raised his head, abruptly. He heard footsteps inside the building - how could he have missed that? - and tensed up. He didn't have anything on him. No gun, no weapon, no nothing. He could feel the weight of his phone on the coat, but nothing aside from that. Should he stand up? Should he—

Two more steps, and he sighed. He recognised that gait.

"Sherlock?" John called right before he turned the lights on.

He was standing where Sherlock had been standing a year ago. Sherlock himself was sitting where John had been sitting. Their roles were reversed, but there was someone missing from the scene.

Mary wasn't there to throw a coin in the air and shoot right through it.

John looked stressed. His mouth was lax and his shoulders tense. He stared at Sherlock for a moment, "Thought I'd find you here."

"How is she?"

Sherlock's voice sounded hoarse. He didn't want to clear his throat and make it obvious he had been taken by surprise.

"Surgery went well. She will be all right."

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. He probably looked vulnerable, something he tried his best to avoid around John. He couldn't do anything about it now. His shoulders felt heavy.

"That's good," he said.

John nodded. Neither tried to get closer. They had an entire corridor between them, and yet Sherlock felt trapped. Cramped. John's disappointment was suffocating him. He wanted to run away, escape, close his mind to this. But of course he couldn't.

"She's at St John. Will you be there?"

Why should he? Wasn't he the sole reason she was there in the first place? If anything, he should be getting farther and farther away from them. All three of them.

"I made a vow," Sherlock said, and regretted it immediately. Part of him didn't want to remind John of that, or Mary. But an even bigger part of him felt like he owed them this. To remind them that he failed. He couldn't even keep a promise. Suddenly even his position as a godfather felt wrong.

John shuffled his feet, clenched and unclenched his right fist. "Yes. Yes, you did."

The rest of the conversation played out in his head. _I couldn't keep it_ , Sherlock would say. _No_ , would be John's short answer. His nostrils would be flaring, he would stop blinking for a second too long. Then he would say, in the most venomous voice he could muster in a low whisper, _Don't expect me to forgive you, Sherlock._ And Sherlock wouldn't say a thing, because he wasn't expecting it, not really. Maybe if they had been closer, John would hit him. In the face, and then on the stomach, to bring him down. Who knew where this could go? He imagined John's knuckles red raw from punching him. The pain would be secondary. He had gone through pain. This would be something else. This would hurt more.

"So," John cleared his throat, made as if he were leaving. "Are you going or not? She'll want to see you."

"Of course," Sherlock said, standing up and putting his hands inside his coat pockets. John hesitated, smiling wryly, before turning around and leaving the building.

When Sherlock stepped out, he was gone.

 

* * *

It was almost seven in the morning when John got home. It was quiet inside the flat, maybe too quiet. He stepped lightly, making sure the keys didn't jingle on his hands. He found Molly asleep on the couch, a thin blanket over her. Rosie was surprisingly also still asleep on the cradle. A mess of toys and empty bowls were scattered over the coffee table, which he tried to clear up just enough for him to sit on. He tapped Molly gently on the arm, and she opened her eyes in surprise.

"Sorry, it's me," John said in a low voice, trying to smile, but it may have come out as a grimace.

Molly sat up quickly, rubbing at her eyes, "How is she? Is she okay?"

"Yes. Thank God, yes, she's fine. I'm sorry you had to stay all night."

Rosie stirred a bit, and they both stared at her until she was still again. "Don't be silly, it's the least that I could do. Can we visit?"

"In the afternoon, yeah," John said, moving out of the way when Molly stood up and started fixing her ponytail. "But I believe you need to rest first."

Molly smiled and gestured dismissively with her hands, "It's all right. I'm taking the night shift today."

This time, Rosie woke up. Molly tried to apologise but John shook his head and went to the baby's crib, pulling his daughter out gently. "Thank you so much, Molly," he said as he rocked Rosie against his chest. "Really."

Molly's smile brightened. She looked relieved, despite her dark circles and wrinkled clothes. "It's nothing. Please let me know if there's anything else I can do. Oh, and..." She reached into her pocket and found a piece of folded paper. "Your sister called."

"Harry?" John received the piece of paper with furrowed eyebrows.

"I said I was your nanny. I didn't know if you'd want her to know about…You know, what happened."

"God, no," he said, forehead still creased, stuffing the paper inside his pockets. "You did well. Thank you, a million times."

In less than a minute, Molly was out of the flat. John was still rocking Rosie, who had calmed down and was just whining her usual _I'm hungry_ morning cry. It felt good to have her in his arms. He knew he'd have to put her down to make her breakfast, but still, he enjoyed the moment just a big longer. He was exhausted, scared, and still angry. It wasn't surprising: whenever he felt scared or cornered, his anger would flare inside of him. He wasn't proud of that. He managed it better the older he got, but he still didn't trust himself. And holding his daughter in his arms, knowing her mother was alive and well, was the first step towards calming himself down.  

The second step, he decided, would be staying away from Sherlock. The night before, when he had gone after him at Leinster Gardens, he was fuming. He was ready to hit Sherlock if he was given the chance. Mycroft sounded quite surprised at how easily John agreed to go find his younger brother. But the truth was that he wasn't worried about Sherlock. Not at that moment. He could only feel his rage boiling inside of him. He might have destroyed the man if he had come any closer.

He felt like a monster.

Putting Rosie down, John walked to the kitchen and splashed some water on his face. He felt ashamed of himself. Horrified. No matter how careless and childish Sherlock had been the night before, should he really be wishing to hurt him like this? Why was he directing all his anger and worry towards him? He was able to control himself, but for how long would that control last? Did he want to find out?

He opened the fridge and took the milk out. He started repeating the same routine he had learned the past few months, almost robotically.

Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called his sister.


	2. Chapter 2

Mary woke up again. She had already woken up a few hours before, she was sure of that, but she had been so out of it she didn't remember much. She remembered John, sitting next to her, and the dim lights of the room she was in. Then she blacked out again.

Now, she was really waking up. She felt sore all over, she realised as soon as she opened her eyes. Groaning, she turned to her side and found Sherlock sitting by her bedside.

He looked terrible.

"You look terrible," she announced. He smiled, even though his smile looked constricted, forced. He did look relieved, she'd give him that. But otherwise, terrible. As if he was the one drowsy on medication.

"Still better looking than you, though," he shot back. She laughed, but it hurt, so she stopped.

"Do I still have all my organs? Feels like they might've pulled some out."

"Mary, I'm sorry."

That wasn't the answer she was expecting to the joke. She was in a private room, and they were alone, but Sherlock's voice was small, as if he didn't want to say that out loud or have anyone hear him.

"Which of my organs did you take?" She tried joking again, but Sherlock didn't laugh. She gave in. "I jumped, Sherlock. You didn't push me in front of you."

"I might as well have."

Mary sighed. She was too heavily medicated for this. Her head was foggy, her mouth dry. She looked up at her IV bag.

"What time is it now?"

"Noon," Sherlock replied promptly. He hadn't stood up, but he wasn't looking at her either. He was staring at his fingers. "John went home to Rosie, he'll be back in an hour."

She didn't say anything. John was probably mad at her, wasn’t he? She imagine he would be angry when he came back.

"He's angry with me," Sherlock said. She looked at him and he met her eyes. "Not you."

"Did you two talk?"

Sherlock looked away.

"He'll come round. He's angrier at himself."

"How so?"

"He's been cheating on me," Mary said with a knowing smile. "Nothing huge, as far as I can tell. But he's angry."

Sherlock didn't answer right away. He had no idea, Mary could tell. He was trying to compute that, fit into everything he knew about John, and about the past few weeks. Mary really wanted some water, but maybe that could wait.

"I'm truly sorry."

She frowned. "For the cheating or for the bullet? Because neither was your fault. And you should probably stop apologising."

"Mary..."

"No, you listen to me," she tried to sit up but barely moved a finger before wincing in pain. Giving up, she took a deep breath. "Sherlock, John needs you. I need you. And if you want to be really helpful, you'll stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Mary winced again. She thought she might need a higher dosage of whichever painkiller she was on.

"I'm in no shape to help you, or even John. You'll need to pull it through. Can you do that?"

Sherlock looked her in the eye. She couldn't tell what he was thinking - she had many guesses, and any of those could be right. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Then he nodded.

"I just have a small, quick favour to ask."

Mary raised her eyebrows, and Sherlock continued.

 

* * *

 

 

"Sherlock, put that down."

John sounded scared. Terrified, even. His eyes were bulging, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He really thought Sherlock had lost it. He was still brandishing the scalpel, making a show of shaking his hands as if he couldn't control them. Smith was standing there, laughing. _He_ didn't seem scared. They were alone, Sherlock was armed - and high for all intents and purposes - and still, the man didn't flinch.

No, he was sure of himself. There were no cameras there, Sherlock was certain. Microphones, hardly possible. This was his room, his favourite room, where he went to do everything his wicked mind pleased. There wouldn't be any sort of recording devices here so there must have been a reason for him to feel so sure, so unconcerned about the entire thing.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, making Sherlock turn to him. He nearly forgot his act, seeing John so unsettled. But he recovered quickly enough, jumping in place, looking to all sides like he knew he would do under a psychotic episode. John was buying into it.

The problem was Smith.

"Why? Why did your daughter come to me?"

"I'm telling you, Mr. Holmes, Faith never met you!" Smith said in between laughs. His horrible teeth seemed darker in the bright lights of the mortuary. He looked insanely happy. "I'm sorry, Dr Watson, but your friend here is beyond help, I'm afraid. If you wish I could find him a nice clinic where he'd be truly taken care of."

"Sherlock," John called with urgency in his voice. "Sherlock, give me that."

It was now or never. If Sherlock backed up now, he wouldn't get so close this easily again. If he went full force, he was the one going down. One time was enough. Killing wasn't the answer.

Dying, maybe.

"I can't..." He muttered, trying his best to look desperate. "I need to make it work, my head, I need to make it work again…"

He lowered his hands. John widened his eyes, unsure if he should step closer now. Deliberately, as if he wanted both men to see what he was doing, Sherlock turned the scalpel around, pointing at himself.

"SHERLOCK!” John shouted at the same time that Sherlock stabbed himself in the stomach.

The pain was immediate. He was far more lucid than John thought he was, and he felt it. He gasped, fell to his knees. The scalpel was stuck inside of him, the blood pouring out immediately. He had calculated the least harmful spot, but it still hurt, and the blood was coming out faster than he expected. It was close to the bullet wound he had from over a year ago; maybe he should have aimed lower.

"Sherlock. Sherlock!"

John was beside him. Somewhere in the room, Smith was having fits of laughter. Sherlock looked up, finding John's pale and pained face. He was shocked. This wasn't the first time he held a bloody Sherlock close to him, it shouldn’t be a surprise. But perhaps that was the exact reason he looked so taken aback. He fretted over the wound for a second before he passed his arms under Sherlock's shoulders, helping him up.

Sherlock clenched his jaw shut. It hurt _a lot_.

"Come on," John said, trying to get him to walk. It was clear he didn't want to leave Sherlock alone with Smith, who hadn't moved to call for help. "Just out the door. HELP!" He called out, hoping someone outside could hear them.

"Careful, Dr Watson," Smith said, clutching his hands together in front of him in mock worry. "He's not himself tonight. He may even turn on you."

John didn't answer, but Sherlock - who was trying very hard not to lose sight of Smith while simultaneously trying not to close his eyes in pain - saw him staring with a hatred so full he wondered if John was about to come back to tackle Smith down. That would ruin the entire plan, of course, but it's not like he could predict John as well as he could a few years ago.

No. John, the man now shouting ahead of them and handling him to a couple of male nurses, was full of surprises.

But maybe he could still predict him just a little bit.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock looked peaceful. John tried not to think too much about that afternoon, but he did anyway. His eyes, never stopping, never focusing on anything. His stubble and messy hair, proof that he hadn't looked in a mirror in a while. The way his hands had trembled, his body asking for the next dose. John closed his eyes and lowered his head. He felt tired. Worn out. This was exactly why he had stayed away. Why he hadn't seen Sherlock in the past four weeks, since the night at the aquarium.

He had wanted to hit him. Hit him hard. Knock some sense into him.

The urge had been strong. He wondered if he would've done it, had Sherlock not turned the scalpel to himself. If he had had the time to disarm him, would he have controlled himself? Or would the monster inside of him have come out?

The entire day flashed before his eyes again. The appointment. Mrs Hudson and her sports car. Sherlock in the boot. Molly, surprised to see him, ready to take Sherlock into the ambulance. Smith, the kids, the morgue, the scalpel.

The blood.

He thought of Mary. Her blood covering his clothes that day at the aquarium. It had been such a close call, she was still basically in bed rest - not that she was following the doctor's orders. He thought of Sherlock - bleeding on the pavement outside Barts (John clutched the edge of Sherlock's bed), bleeding on the floor of Magnussen's flat (his knuckles turned white), bleeding right in front of him from a self-inflicted injury (he opened his eyes, trying to control his breathing).

He couldn't handle this. He wasn't who Sherlock thought he was, or Mary, for that matter. He wasn't that strong. How many more times would he see Sherlock die before he broke down completely? What was his limit?

Sherlock inhaled sharply. John sniffed, let go of his bed, and straightened his back.

"You're still here. Good."

"Yeah, I was… About to leave, actually."

Sherlock tried smiling, "Good."

John hesitated. He should be going. He should be out of that room by now, but for some reason he couldn't move. Like he wanted to be there, talk, but couldn't find what exactly it was that he wanted to say. Or hear, for that matter. He wasn't expecting an apology from Sherlock, not really. He shifted on his feet, licked his front teeth, tried to find his voice. "What is it? What do you want?"

"Your help."

John snorted, "My help? You're asking for my help. Now."

"Yes."

He tried to contain his smile. Not a good one. No, this was his pissed off smile. The one that came before the yelling, he was pretty sure of it. His blood was boiling. How dare he say that? After getting Mary shot. After starting on the drugs again like a bloody junkie. After bringing John here to watch him try to kill himself.

"You've got the wrong person."

"No. I need you, John."

John was still. The room was so quiet, he could hear the hum of the lights over his head. He cleared his throat, but didn't say anything. Sherlock was looking at him, really looking. He wasn't smiling, or trying to prove a point. At least he didn't _look_ like it, John thought to himself. He felt his own pulse quickening, his impulse to yell subsiding by the second. Those words were a low blow. He knew Sherlock was most probably saying that for whatever twisted purpose he had in mind, but it still cut deep.

"Your stick is in your car."

John blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"Your walking stick. From when we first met."

"Yes," he said slowly, stepping closer to the bed without thinking. "What about it?"

"Bring it to the room. Leave it here as a parting gift."

"A parting..." John laughed, the anger starting to bubble up again. "Sherlock, what is this?"

"I'll explain everything, I promise. But that walking stick needs to be here. And I need you to go away."

John raised his hands, smiling sardonically, "No need to say it twice."

"John, trust me, I will explain every..."

"I'll go get your bloody walking stick," John said in a low growl, walking to the door.

"John."

His tone was urgent. John stopped, hand on the doorknob, and turned around.

"Do you trust me?"

They looked at each other. John seemed to think about it, averting his eyes at the last second, opening the door and muttering over his shoulder. "Yeah, I don't know about that."


	3. Chapter 3

Mary sat down again, for what felt like the tenth time in the last twenty minutes. She was trying not to exert herself, she really was, but she couldn't stay in bed much longer. She was pretty sure she would go nuts before Rosie said her first word. Molly and Mrs Hudson were there. The temporary nanny for Tuesdays and Thursdays, a skinny 18 year-old with red flaming hair, wasn't available that night. Mary had tried to cook them something for dinner, but she had tired herself out just trying to chop vegetables. Mrs Hudson was now in the kitchen, not budging to Mary and Molly's arguments that they should just order some Chinese.

"Don't be silly, both of you should be eating properly. Molly here is taking the night shift again, isn't that right, dear?"

Molly nodded from behind her teacup, sitting next to Mary on the couch. "Yes," she said when she had swallowed the mouthful of tea. "But it's okay, there's plenty of time for snacks in the night shift."

Mary made a face, "The company here is better, though, isn't it?"

Just as Molly spit her tea laughing, the doorbell rang. Mary made as if she was going to stand up, but Molly was faster, "Sit down, I'll take it."

She opened the door in less than a minute, not noticing Mary right behind her. Outside, standing on the front steps, was a short, blonde woman with her hair tied loose. She looked a bit older than Molly, and was wearing a big, elegant coat and shining heels. Molly said, "Hi. I, uhm… How may I help you?"

"I’m sorry, did I knock on the wrong door?" The woman asked. She looked confused, staring at Molly as if she couldn't remember where she had seen her. Her eyes were a deep blue, and she looked up, as if trying to look at the exterior of the flat. "Did John give me the wrong number?"

"I'm sorry, who… Who are you?" Molly asked. Mary, who had been standing in the shadows behind her, understood right away that Molly was being careful. She didn't want to give any names away first if she could. They were both on alert, knowing who Sherlock and John were meeting that evening.  

"I'm Harriet. Harriet Watson," the woman said, still confused but giving a polite smile anyway. "I'm looking for my brother John?"

"Harry?" Molly said, surprised, before she could catch herself. It was then that Mary stepped closer and stood next to Molly, staring at the woman.

"Oh my God, you're John's sister! Hi, come on in," she said, and stood aside. Molly did the same, although she looked a bit confused. "Did John know you were coming?"

"He invited me, actually." Harriet stepped inside, taking off her coat. She was well-dressed, but Mary could see the suit she was wearing looked worn out, as did her handbag. "You are Mary, right?"

"Yes, John's wife, hi," she helped Harriet hang her coat and gestured towards Molly, "This is Molly, a good friend of ours."

She thought about adding _and Rosie's godmother_ but she wondered if that wouldn't sting, considering Harriet hadn't been invited to be one as Rosie's aunt. The woman - her sister-in-law, God! - acknowledged Molly with a smile that was much warmer than the one she had given outside.

"Nice to meet you, Molly...?"

"Hooper. Nice to meet you too," Molly said, cheeks reddening all of a sudden. She smiled back, a little bit shy, but held the woman's gaze. They stared at each other for a second too long, enough to make Mary slightly uncomfortable to be there, before she showed them the way inside.

"So John knew you were coming? He didn't say anything," Mary said as they reached the sitting room. Mrs Hudson came out of the kitchen. "This is Mrs Hudson, another good friend of ours, much like an older sister."

"Mary's just being kind, she knows I'm old enough to be her mother," Mrs Hudson said, taking Harriet's hand, which was adorned with rings and bracelets, Mary noticed. "And you are, dear?"

"Harriet. John's sister."

"Oh, John's sister! Oh, how lovely! Will you be joining us for dinner?"

Harriet looked from Mrs Hudson to Mary, who nodded, "Of course, please join us!"

"All right, then."

Mary showed her the couch, and she sat down quietly, holding her handbag to her knees. Mary took the armchair, and gestured towards the couch when Molly stood there awkwardly. Oh, this was brilliant. But she couldn't let herself be too distracted, now.

"So, Harriet..."

"Call me Harry, please. Only our mother called me Harriet and even so, it's not a good memory."

Mary smiled, "Harry it is, then. I'm afraid John is busy tonight, and I can't tell for sure how long he will be out..."

"Is he at work?"

"You could say that," Molly answered before Mary could say anything. Both turned to look at her, making her blush again, but she didn't stop now. "He's helping Sherlock on a case."

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes? He's still going out with the detective, then?" Harry asked, then turned abruptly to Mary. "Sorry. I keep forgetting he's married now."

"I know, I keep forgetting that too."

Harriet hesitated, but when she saw Mary and Molly smiling, she laughed. "God, he's not gonna like it that I'm meeting you first without him around."

"Why?" Molly asked, but then went on to look flustered. "Sorry, that's none of my business."

"Don't worry," Harriet said, smiling at her. Mary poured herself a cup of tea to hide her smile. "Let’s just say I'm quite used to taking the blame. Our childhood in a nutshell."

She accepted the tea Mary offered her, and after she took a sip, she continued, "We're not in the best of terms. He was reluctant to meet me at first, but then he called me back, a few weeks ago. I was really surprised. Wasn't expecting it at all."

Mary's phone beeped. She took it out of her pocket and saw a message from John.

> _Received 19:39_
> 
> **Hi. CS confessed. Heading to the Yard now.**

Harriet had started talking about her life, on a full sharing mode, as it seemed. Mary didn't want to seem rude, texting while she was talking, so she just locked her screen and listened. From what she was saying, she had been trying to contact John since she heard that Rosie had been born, but to no avail. Then, around four weeks ago - right after Mary was shot, if Mary wasn't mistaken - he had returned her call and promised to call again to set a date for them to meet.

Then, last weekend, he had called and set a dinner today. Why he hadn't told Mary was a mystery. It's not like she would be out, not while she was still recovering. Unless he wanted them to meet without knowing; spring that on both of them. Why, though?

Mary's phone beeped again.

> _Received 19:43_
> 
> **Everything OK?**

"Sorry, it's John, I'll just..." She gestured to her phone, and Harriet turned to Molly. She seemed really in the mood to talk, and Molly was more than happy to listen.

> _Sent 19:44_
> 
> **Harry's here. should we wait for u?**
> 
> _Received 19:44_
> 
> **It will take a while. Call her tomorrow. Sorry I forgot to mention x**

She relayed the message to them just as Mrs Hudson walked into the room, calling them over to the dining table. Harriet looked crestfallen, as if she didn't believe John would call her again. They took their seats around the table and Mary promised to let her see Rosie after dinner, despite her being miraculously asleep. The conversation then took a lighter turn, and Mary tried not to worry about John's reasons for calling his estranged sister over without telling her.

 

* * *

 

 

"Something's strange," Sherlock said as the nurses left his room. John looked tired, his shoulder stiff - never a good sign - and let himself down on a chair.

"Yeah, Smith's confessed. You think he's planning something?"

"No, not him," Sherlock dismissed him with a hand. He was worried, but why? It was like there was something nagging at the back of his mind, something he had let slip from under his nose. At this point, he figured Smith would be confessing to all of his crimes. Or at least the ones he was more proud of. "The recording will be inadmissible, of course."

"What?"

"Why hasn't Mycroft made contact yet?"

John widened his eyes in an effort to look less like he was about to fall asleep. "I don't know. It's a good thing though, isn't it? No offence, but I rather like when he's not around."

"So do I… That's what makes it weird."

Sherlock reached for his phone on the table next to his bed, groaning as his stitches complained. John half raised himself but wasn't quick enough; Sherlock had his phone in his hands and was touching the screen distractedly. "He should have tried to contact me by now. Or you."

John stifled a yawn, "Why? So he could tell us off?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, not really paying attention. Mycroft going silent was weird, for sure, but there was something else. Sherlock felt uncomfortable, trying to find what it was that was distracting him, but he couldn't. He almost missed it when John rose from his chair, stretching himself. "Are you going already?"

"Rosie. And Mary."

Sherlock blinked, "Of course. Sorry, of course, go."

"Will you be all right here?" John eyed the room suspiciously, as if he was trying to find a secret door like in the last hospital, the one where Smith nearly succeeded in killing Sherlock. He shuddered visibly.

"Yes, don't worry. I've got Gavin on speed dial," Sherlock joked, showing his phone.

"Greg."

"Greg, yes."

John made a face, like he was thinking about something else, but settled on a tight smile before leaving the room. Sherlock didn't like to see him leave like that. Not that he was guilty for what he had John put through that day, as strenuous as it was, but because he could sense that John still wasn't sure about him. About whether or not he could trust Sherlock, or if he wanted to.

He was tense, and he might make a harsh decision if he didn't work it out soon enough. But Sherlock willed himself to forget about that for now. He needed to remember what had caught his attention, and why he felt so weird about it.

No, not weird. Scared.

But what was he scared of and why?

 

* * *

 

When John finally got home, it was past three in the morning. He expected to find the flat dark and silent, but walked inside to find Mary rocking Rosie back and forth, walking the corridor that linked their room to the baby's room. There were just a few lights on. Mary turned around to greet him.

"Hey," he said as quietly as he managed. Mary nodded, but didn't say anything. Rosie was probably almost asleep, and he didn't want to wake her up, so he walked into their room to change out of his day clothes, deciding he could tell her about Sherlock’s stunt the next morning.

When he walked out of the bathroom, Mary was walking into room. "Second time she's woken up tonight. I thought it was a fever but she seems fine," she said, taking off her slippers and sitting on the edge of the bed. "Just being an arse, that's all."

"That's our daughter," John joked, making Mary chuckle. He walked closer to her, but when he leaned down to give her a light kiss on the lips, she raised a hand, the universal sign for him not to go on. "What's wrong?"

"John," Mary said, sounding tired but resolute, nonetheless. "Talk to me?"

He straightened his back, "What about?"

"Everything. Why was Harry here tonight?"

He sighed. It was not like he didn't want to talk to her. On the contrary, he had come close to talking to her a dozen times in the past few days, it seemed. But every time, he backed out at the last minute, stopped himself, telling his own heart it was not a good time. Not now, with Mary hurt and recovering. Not while her near-death experience still felt so recent. He didn't want to do that to her, or to himself. So he postponed it, until he'd grow the balls, but that day seemed to never come.

Tired as he was, he didn't have enough energy to fight himself. So he sat beside her on the bed, stared at his own fingers in the dark, and started from where he thought was easier.

"I called Harry because…" He stopped, cleared his throat. "It felt wrong. Not having her around. No matter how distant I want to be from her… And believe me, I wanted to be as distant as humanly possible these past few years… I can't make that call by myself. I have a family now."

Mary waited for him to continue, and then shook her head slightly. "Sorry love, not following."

"It’s..." John tried again. "I almost lost you, Mary. Rosie almost lost you. What if one day I'm the one who dies out of a sudden? What if one day I'm the one who gets shot?"

"John…"

"No, I know, this is stupid and I know it. But I want to make sure you're not alone if that happens. I want to make sure you at the very least know this disjointed thing I used to call a family."

He stopped to gather his thoughts, and Mary took his hand, gently. He squeezed it, feeling his chest tightening.

"There's something else."

For a moment, he was glad they were sitting in the dark. It felt easier, somehow, not being able to see her face. He didn't know what to expect now, and he didn't want to choose the easy way out again. He took a deep breath.

"I have… Been cheating on you."

Silence. Mary didn't take her hand from his, which he thought was a good sign, but she looked away. He caught a whiff of her perfume as she shook her head.

"I know."

John frowned, "You know?"

"I was waiting for you to tell me yourself. But yeah, I knew it. How many times?"

She didn't sound angry. If anything, she sounded tired. Which didn't say anything, after all - they were having this conversation in the middle of the night. But that tiredness stung, still. John knew she was tired. How could she not be? A child, a chase, an injury… And somehow, he had found the time to flirt. To accept a girl's number, to talk to her. He felt like a dick.

"In person? None. But we've been texting for about two months."

"Sexting?" There was an unexpected tone of playfulness in her tone. John rubbed her hand with his thumb.

"No. Well, she tried, I just… I couldn't. How did you know?"

"Why do you think we're still together, John?"

John tried not to scoff, "Because we love each other."

"True, but that’s not an answer. Did you really expect this to work? On the long run?"

John let go of her hand. "What are you saying?"

Mary turned to him, even though they couldn't see much of each other's faces in the dark. "John, I love you. You know I do. But if it weren't for Rosie… Really, if I hadn't been pregnant, would you have stayed? After the whole thing with Magnussen?"

"Yes," he replied instantly, but it struck him that maybe he didn't know that for sure. He didn't want to say that out loud. It was too cold, even for his standards, but Mary understood his silence anyway.

"I don't want to break things up. I really don't. But I don't want to be holding you back, either. If this is not what you want, really, truly want, then I don't see the point."

"Yeah but Rosie..."

"Would be another child in a world of divorced parents. She would survive. And probably be better off than if she were to live with two parents who are indifferent towards each other. Trust me, I know."

He stared at her, wondering just how much she had lied about her past. He knew she had lied about her name, and her life in the past years, but had she lied about her upbringing, too? She wasn't an orphan, then. John wondered if he should be angry, but he realised he didn't care about that. Not right now, anyway.

"You're not holding me back," he said, in a low voice. He might not know a lot of things at the moment, but he knew that. "You make me want to be a better man."

He thought he heard a smile in her voice when she said, "I'm glad. Shall we go to bed then?"

"Please, I'm exhausted."

"Me too," she said, standing up and gesturing for him to do the same so she could climb on the bed. "To be continued?"

He walked around the bed and pulled the covers, "To be continued."

 

* * *

 

He felt heavy. The medication they gave him was not their strongest - his file said way too much for that - but it still made him terribly slow. He shook his head. A palliative would have to wait. Now was not the right time; he was already too late for this. A week had passed since the night they had caught Smith, which meant he had spent an entire week in the hospital. Of course, he could have just as easily slipped out, but he needed to be certain he wouldn't have to go back. Not immediately, anyway. He didn't know what he was facing, and he would need to be standing up for that.

Mary was just leaving the building when he turned the corner. He had thought she would be taking the train back home but she walked straight into a white a car - one Sherlock hadn't seen yet - and took the passenger's seat. As soon as she had shut the door, he opened the door to the backseat and slipped inside.

"May I take a ride?" He said. There was a fleeting second in which he caught the reflection of the driver. She was easily over forty, although she had tried a couple of plastic surgeries on her face. Her hair was fair but tones lighter than Mary's, a dirty blond that neared grey. Her makeup was just enough to give her a well groomed air about her, but it wasn't anything she couldn't have done in under five minutes. The hands on the steering wheel wore rings, the kind that told him she was the type to dress up on a daily basis. Something about her mouth caught his attention; it looked familiar, the same corners easily turned upwards or downwards depending on what she was feeling. It was all he could gather before she turned around and punched him.

In the face.

Sherlock's head went back, and he must have screwed his eyes shut quickly enough, for he saw stars.

"It's ok, Harry, it's fine, it's a friend!" Mary blurted out, clearly expecting a second blow from her. "Jesus, Sherlock, are you all right?"

He put his fingers to his lips, but it didn't come back with blood; he couldn't taste it either. Had she punched him any higher, she would have hit him in the nose. The lips, the grey blond hair, the right hook. He understood it now. He was still assessing the damage when he said, "Pleased to finally meet you, Harriet."

"How— Sweet baby Jesus. Are you...?" She gasped. "You're John's detective. You're Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock finally looked up to see Mary and Harriet both looking at him with worry in their eyes. He tried to look as perky as possible. The blow seemed to have made him dizzy at first, but he felt better already. He really thought he should go home and prepare something to help clear his mind, but there was no time. He frowned slightly at Harriet's " _John's detective_ ", but turned to Mary first. "When you looked at those files, did you find anything on Lady Smallwood?"

"I…" Mary glanced at Harriet, then back at Sherlock. "Yes, she was mentioned here and there. Her… Profile was private, though."

She meant her files were secured. She was acting coy in front of Harriet, possibly hadn't yet disclosed to her in law that she had magnificent hacking skills. Sherlock gestured dismissively in Harriet's direction. "Is she giving you a ride home? We could talk over tea, if you don't mind. I'd like to see Rosie. It's been a while, don't you think?"

Mary definitely gawked at him. He may have overdone it, but there was no way Harriet would know. John's sister still looked surprised, watching the exchange with wide eyes. "Are you working on a case?"

"Yes," he lied, and Mary squinted. He squinted back. "Or something like that. Mycroft’s been gone for days."

"Who is Mycroft?" Harriet said, but since no one seemed keen to answer, she sighed and turned back to the steering wheel, turning the keys. "I'll drive you back to Mary's, don't mind me, I'm just the driver. Go on."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though only Mary saw it. She smiled shortly before fastening her seatbelt and asking over her shoulder, "How long has it been?"

"Seven days, at least. Our parents were the ones called to the hospital, which is already strange. He didn't contact them either."

"Oh, so Mycroft's your brother!" Harriet called without taking her eyes off the street. Sherlock ignored her.

"Lady Smallwood might know something. I'm not sure. I don't have her new number."

"And it's not on the website, I suppose."

Sherlock smiled, watching London pass by his window. "Oh, no. She's almost like a ghost. They all are."

"But you think she knows something?"

"Possibly."

"My brother isn't _investigating_ with you this time?" Harriet asked, emphasizing the word _investigating_ as if she found it exciting.

Mary answered before Sherlock could say anything, "John's at the surgery."

"Therapy," Sherlock corrected. "It's his lunch break, he's over at his new..."

The words fell out of his mouth. His breath hitched. He could see it, as if it were a scene playing out in front of him, thin lips forming silent words. First in a poorly lit sitting room, then in a wide room with white furniture. Blond hair, grey hair. The same mouth, but different faces. No. Different _hairstyles_. Different glasses. Different eyes? Horror flooded him. No, not different. Different colours. Harriet's mouth swam in and out of his mind in a flash. Her lips, reminding him of someone else.

Fake Faith Smith's lips, placed on a different face.

He might have shouted it, but he didn't register it; the words were flying out of his mouth, "John's in danger. We need to get to his appointment."

"What?" Harriet shrieked.

"What do you mean?" Mary asked in a much calmer tone, but the alarm evident in her voice.

"His therapist, that's not his therapist. He probably never met the woman he contacted weeks ago, he has been meeting someone else, a woman, a… I don't know who she is, but she's dangerous, and we need to get to him, right now."

He was sent back to his seat when Harriet sped up out of a sudden, tires screeching. "Oh my God," she said, and then again, "Oh my God, where to?"

Mary told her the address and held her phone to her ears, "He's not answering his phone. Sherlock, try texting him."

"What is going on?!" Harriet shrieked again, louder this time. "Who is this woman and why would she hurt John?"

Sherlock was trying to keep himself calm, but it wasn't easy. He kept replaying the night the fake Faith Smith had come to 221B, the way she talked, the way she held her walking stick, the way she mouthed her words. It was the same mouth he had seen on John's therapist a week before. Different hair, different glasses, different clothes - even the way she stood was different. But it was the same mouth. The same lips, the same cheeks. How could he have let that slip? How did he not see it right there and then?

"Sherlock!" Mary called him. She was giving Harriet instructions, and John's sister was driving like mad, but clever mad. She sped up and crossed red lights when she was sure she wasn't being stopped, which took them two minutes closer to their destination, according to his calculations. Mary was talking, but he had tuned her off, and she tried again. "How much danger are we talking here?"

“I don’t know.” The woman who presented herself as Faith Smith had tried to trick him. Had given something Sherlock knew must have been given to her by Culverton Smith himself. Were they in this together? Was this Smith's revenge? But it didn't make sense to target John. Sherlock was his prize, the prey that got away, not John. Smith couldn't care less about emotional distress - he wanted to kill Sherlock with his bare hands. No, he wouldn't target John. _She_ wouldn't target John. Then why was she there? What if she wasn't part of Smith's bigger plan, what if—? A bizarre idea crossed his mind, but it had slipped out before he could develop it any further.

Harriet honked as she zipped in front of a slow car. They were getting closer, and Sherlock remembered Mary’s question. She was typing furiously on her phone, trying to message John, no doubt, but Sherlock knew she was paying attention, "John's new therapist isn't who she claims to be. She came to the flat three weeks ago, pretending to be someone else, trying to get me to follow a fabricated case, for what reasons, I don't know. I thought it was Culverton Smith’s way of trying to lure me in," he forced himself to continue. His mind was going berserk trying to remember everything about the night with the lady in red. "She must have caught me on my act because she fled before I could learn who she was. I couldn't follow her."

They turned into the street where John's therapy took place, and Mary pointed to the right house. Harry drove up to the front steps and hit the brakes before she could actually drive into the building. The three of them climbed out, but Sherlock was faster. He reached the door first, and tried buzzing the doorbell and knocking on the door incessantly. He waited maybe five seconds before he took a step away and declared, "I'll bring it down."

"Hang on," Mary said, walking up the steps and turning the knob. The door clicked open. She gave Sherlock a pointed look but didn't waste any more time walking in, closely followed by Sherlock and Harriet, who walked inside with them. Mary was holding a small dagger in her hands, although Sherlock didn't know where she had pulled it from, and she was quick to reach the sitting room.

It was the same white and grey colour pattern Sherlock remembered from the week before. Everything seemed to be still and quiet. As soon as they rounded the corner and entered the room, though, both Mary and Sherlock ran inside towards John, who was lying on the floor, unconscious.

Harriet was cursing from somewhere in the room, but Mary and Sherlock kneeled down without a word, one on each side of John's. Mary checked his pulse, his breathing, and declared he was alive. At the same time, Sherlock was checking the sting on his neck and the dart on the floor close to his hand. He smelled it, tasted it and spat it out; a sedative. Midazolam, possibly. Mary was checking his pupils, declaring to the room, "He's all right, he was just drugged."

"Sedative," Sherlock said, showing them the dart and standing up. "It hit him on the neck, right below his chin. The skin on the area suggests it was a gun, which she obviously took with herself."

Harriet was standing there, covering her mouth and staring at John, still on the floor being checked on by Mary. "Why? What did he do?"

"Probably nothing," Sherlock looked back at him and saw Mary palming his skull, looking for injuries. "This doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't, but you were right," Mary said as she placed John's head gently on the floor again. "She wasn't his therapist."

"No, but I think the real one is closer than we think," Sherlock glanced around the room, and he sounded ominous enough that Harriet whispered yet another meaningless expletive.

"Harry, give me a hand, please," Mary asked, and her sister in law was quick to comply, kneeling down next to her. "Sherlock, call Greg. We'll take John to the surgery, it's less than five minutes from here."

He moved closer to help them haul John up, but Mary sent him away, "You'll pull your stitches. Call Greg, see if you can find anything here."

John's body seemed heavy, but the two of them managed to keep him up by the shoulders, head lolling from side to side. He was terribly pale. He looked _fragile_. That seemed wrong, somehow. Sherlock had seen John asleep, unconscious, and drugged (by his own means) multiple times. That didn't feel quite as worrying as now. The women took him outside, towards the car, while Sherlock's mind raced from guilt to worry to confusion in a seemingly endless loop. None of that made sense.

Outside, he turned around abruptly and found Mary making John comfortable in the backseat. "Can you wake him up?"

"He has a bump on his head, he might have had—”

"A concussion, I know, but I don't think he did. He took the dart out, he was conscious when he fell. The question is, can you wake him up?"

Mary stared at him for a second, weighing her options. "I could try, but he's been drugged, Sherlock, and he wouldn't be of much help now. He'll be awake in half an hour if we take him to the surgery now. We'd rather have him safe, right?"

Sherlock nodded, not trying to hide the worry from his face. Mary knew him, and she read him better than most. It was no use trying to hide anything from her. He didn't _want_ to hide it, either. If there was anyone that he could trust with that, that person was Mary.

She watched him and then went into the car, lifting John's head gently so she could place it on her lap. "I'll call you as soon as he wakes up. And I'll text you the number."

Sherlock closed the door behind her, "What number?"

"Smallwood's. Mycroft called the same number plenty of times, a number registered to someone called A.E.S."

"Thank you," Sherlock said. Harriet then turned the ignition, and drove them away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention by now that despite doing my best with research I use a bit of poetic licence writing about medical terms/procedures. hope it's not too distracting to those with medical training! 
> 
> (and if you're still reading, thank you. seriously. that means a lot.)

The surgery was busier than Mary had expected. She reasoned it was her nerves, her anxiety to get John in, and that it was no busier than any other Thursday. In half an hour John had gone in, and when they had made sure he wasn't sporting any injuries, Mary sighed in relief — her shoulders felt lighter almost instantly. She managed to slip him into a vacant examination room, the very same room he had been using that morning, and came back carrying a mix of drugs that would get her fired in the blink of an eye.

Her nurse training told her she shouldn't be doing this, not now, and that maybe he should be waking up on his own when the drugs wearied off, or that  he should at least be getting this through an IV drip, but she knew better than that. She was expecting bad news at any moment, and if they could get a head start on whatever game this was, all the better. So she got to work.

"John?" She called when John started stirring. He tried hard to keep his eyes open, but it took him a minute or two to manage that, during which she set the oxygen levels for the mask she was holding ready. He grunted, and Mary smiled.

"Don't worry, you're okay," she said, and he gave her a wary look. He took his surroundings, tried to sit up but gave up midway.

"Wha' happnd?" He tested his mouth and tongue, and then repeated, clearer this time. "What happened?"

"You were in therapy."

His eyes focused on her. She could see the moment it came back to him. "She shot me."

"With a sedative. But you're all right."

"What..." John touched his neck. He suddenly looked up, all anxious eyes, and doubled over the edge of the bed, vomiting right where Mary had positioned the bucket for him. She waited until he was back to offer him a towel and the oxygen mask, which he used for a bit before announcing, "We need to warn Sherlock, she's—”

"The one who went to Baker Street, yeah."

"No," and this time John managed to sit up, closing his eyes, probably feeling dizzy. "I meant, she's his sister. His bloody sister."

Mary didn't know what to say at first, so she paused, frowning in disbelief. She definitely wasn’t expecting _that_. It didn't make sense, and she said so. John nodded and smiled, that acid smile that told her he was angry.

"It doesn't. It doesn't make any sense. She said she had a Greek name, something like Euro, I don’t know."

"What else did she say?"

"She—” John rubbed his face and put the mask back on for a while. He looked drained. Mary wondered if he shouldn't be admitted for observation, at least for the night, but he interrupted that train of thought. "She tricked me, Mary. She was the woman I had been seeing... Talking to. Just talking. That's all there ever was, thank God."

"You’re joking."

"Sounds like it, doesn’t it?" he laughed, but it was a sad, pitiful sound. He felt awful. It was written on his face. "She asked me about Sherlock's other sibling. I said he only had one brother, and she laughed."

Of course, John didn’t know that Sherlock had been looking into Mycroft’s files a while back, right after the Vivian Norbury incident. Sherlock had never told her he suspected a lost sibling with those words, but he was curious enough about their family tree and their childhood files - all lost or hidden away, as far as they could uncover - for Mary herself to wonder. But she didn’t expect it to be true, nor did she expect it to blow up on their faces like that. And so soon! Unless they had been missing the signs for a long time now, which was far-fetched, but still possible.

Mary took her phone out of her pocket. In all her worry, she had forgotten to send Lady Smallwood's number to Sherlock. She called him out of her contacts, staring at John and biting her lip.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Sherlock," she said, not giving him time to answer. "John's awake. He's all right."

She handed the phone to John, who took it without hesitation. As always, she knew he wouldn't hold to his grudge in a situation where Sherlock was at risk. He started telling Sherlock everything, taking a few jabs at how Sherlock had failed to mention a sister, but overall straight to the point.

While they were talking, Mary stood up from where she had been perched on the edge of the bed and turned on the computer on the other side of the room. John's notebook was still there, and she had to push the keyboard away, used to his habit of pulling it closer to him while typing. In less than a minute she had found what she was looking for. She turned around and called John, who was about to hang up.

"Ask him if he still wants the number," she said. John did, and Sherlock must have answered, because he nodded. Mary told him the phone number, digit by digit, and he relayed it to Sherlock.

"Whose number was that?" He asked when he hung up.

Mary didn't answer right away. She wiped her traces and logged out, standing back up. "How are you feeling?"

"Sleepy. And heavy," John snorted. "Why?"

"We should probably get going."

"Where to, exactly?"

"No idea, love," she said. "But there's someone I would like to visit."

 

* * *

 

 

"She's not picking up," John said, frowning at his phone. He pocketed it again, looking up at the building. "Are you sure Harry didn't say anything before she left? And why are we here again?"

"Visiting a friend who might help. Maybe. If we're lucky." Mary locked the car and started walking up the steps to the tall, business-like building they were about to walk into. John had never been there, and he wanted to question why they were now, but he still felt slightly wobbly, and he had no better ideas anyway. Sherlock wasn't answering his texts anymore, just like his sister wasn't answering her phone.

They rode the elevator to the eleventh floor, where Mary talked to the receptionist in a low voice and stood waiting for whoever it was they had come to see. It was a nice, busy place, a bit too posh for John's taste, but he was more than glad for the cushioned chairs neatly arranged against the walls. He sat down just as someone called, "Mary!"

John was surprised to see Janine. She looked exactly like he remembered her, except she was wearing her hair in a high knot. His wife hugged her and whispered something, to which Janine nodded and gave a guarded look around. "Come this way, the green room isn't being used."

She greeted John warmly but briefly and led the way through a long corridor. They entered one of the doors to the right, a thin room with an oval table and ceiling-high windows opposite to them. As soon as they had entered the room and Janine had closed the door behind her, she turned to Mary. "What happened?"

"A lot. Have you seen Mycroft?"

"Mycroft?" John looked from one to the other, confused. "Why would she—” He stopped himself, realisation dawning on him. He felt terribly behind, but he tried to remind himself that he had been drugged not long ago, and that it probably had something to do with it. "You work for him now. Is this his?"

He gestured vaguely, as if meaning the room, and Janine smirked. "You could say that." She looked back to Mary, "But no, I haven't seen him. He hasn't been in for at least a week. It's driving Marcus mad, so he probably hasn't been in contact."

Mary turned to John, "He hasn't contacted Sherlock either. I thought it might be a family thing but if Mycroft hasn't been showing up to his meetings either, Sherlock might be onto something." She bit on the tip of her finger for a few seconds before turning to Janine. "Is your phone connected to the Wi-Fi here?"

Janine nodded and unlocked her screen, offering the phone to Mary, who took it immediately.

"What are you doing?" John asked, getting closer to peer over Mary's shoulder.

"Trying to see if I can locate Mycroft's phone, or at least get into his corporate e-mail, see if he's... I don't know..." She trailed off, her fingers moving too fast for John to pick up. He stood aside, clearing his throat, trying with all his might not to feel as tired as he felt. He met Janine's gaze, and smiled awkwardly. He had no idea she had been working for Mycroft, and even less of an idea that she knew this other side of Mary. But she seemed calm enough to have seen this happening at least once in her life, and that meant Mary had disclosed it to her at some point. How could John not know this? How far apart were the two of them, that John didn't know who Mary's close friends were anymore? She and Janine had been close before, of course, but once the Charles Magnussen situation had been out of the way, he never asked what had become of her.

The image of her sitting on Sherlock's lap came back to his mind in a flash and he averted his gaze, uncomfortable.

"How's Rosamund?" asked Janine in a friendly tone. "I wish I could've been there for the christening, but I'm out of the country every other week, it's insane."

John tried a nice smile. "She's fine, yeah, thanks. Getting bigger by the day. You should come visit us, have some tea, see Rosie."

"Oh sure," Janine said, and something about her manner said she also felt slightly uncomfortable, despite her best efforts. "I'd love that!"

Before John could come up with a follow-up comment, Mary interrupted them. "No GPS, no tracking device, no nothing. His corporate e-mail is active but he hasn't sent anything in a while now, and it's mostly just business. Nothing out of the ordinary."

She was frowning, and John thought he knew that face. She was frustrated. They had hit a dead end. Janine, who had been leaning against the wall next to the door, stood upright out of a sudden. "I just remembered..."

"What?" Mary looked up instantly.

"We should check his schedule. I only noticed this recently, but there's a name that's been popping up from time to time. Nothing related to the company or to his shares, I don’t suppose, just a name he has scribbled down a few times, mentioned during his phone calls. More so recently. I don't think it means anything but maybe it'll make sense to you?"

Mary gave her phone back and prompted, "Maybe. What's the name?"

"Sherrinford."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stared at his picture. Or what was supposed to be his picture, but felt more like a ridiculous caricature of himself, hair slicked back and a red uniform that tried to place him in a period that was not his own. He remembered when Mycroft had commissioned that painting, and how he had made a show of feigning indifference, even though he wanted to tear the whole thing to shreds. Apathy pierced his brother differently. He would welcome a quarrel, would love acceptance, but apathy? Mycroft was furious, and for the next three weeks kept lecturing Sherlock on the tradition of family portraits, even though they were both well aware that family traditions meant nothing to them.

Or so Sherlock thought until quite recently.

The house was empty. It didn't look like Mycroft had been there in days. There was no sign of forced entry, struggle, or anything that would indicate he had been taken away against his will. It looked simply as if he had decided to go away on his own. It wasn’t right. He would have made arrangements for his possessions and his collections to be taken care of. No, the way things were, it felt wrong. He hadn't planned to go away. Something had happened.

He had sent a quick text to John telling how Lady Smallwood had been no help other than to confirm Mycroft had been AWOL and to say they were doing their best trying to find him. Useless. Sherlock had then tried looking through his brother's office, but he hadn't seen anything that could explain this disappearance, or the idea that he had a _sister_. If that was true - and he believed it was, by now - how could he not remember? How could he have forgotten the existence of a sibling?

John had said her name was _something like Euro_. A Greek name. Eurus, then. Suddenly Mycroft’s silly stories meant so much more. The East Wind had a name.

He heard splashing water, and children laughing. He shook his head. Suppressed memories? That seemed extreme. He tried to focus, to remember, but nothing more came. Water and laughter. How helpful.

Sherlock’s phone rang and he fished out of the pocket without looking at the screen.

"Yes?"

" _I that am lost, oh who will find me?_ "

It sounded like a female voice, singing slowly, almost reciting it in a flat, unwavering tone. Sherlock hesitated. This was moving a lot quicker than expected. He looked down at his phone and saw that it was Mycroft's number calling him. Which shouldn't be a surprise, at this point, but still made Sherlock unsure as how to approach this. This was new, uncharted territory. He would have to tread carefully.

"Eurus, I suppose?"

" _So you_ did _miss me,_ " the woman said - Eurus, he had to assume - and her voice was just as flat as it had been when she had been singing. Emotionless. Disconnected. " _I was starting to think you would never admit that, brother_."

"Where is Mycroft?"

" _Why, looking for a family reunion so soon?_ "

Sherlock clenched his jaw, alertness sharpening his thoughts. He turned away from the portraits, staring down the stairs, towards the empty hall.

" _You never brought me the hairband._ "

"I'm sorry?"

" _The hairband,_ " Eurus repeated in a firmer tone. " _I asked you to bring it to me_."

"You're mistaking me for someone else."

" _Oh, Sherlock. You don't know anything, do you? Mummy's hairband. The one I asked you to take for me_."

Heat. Loud barking. Water, coming from everywhere. Sherlock didn't realise he had closed his eyes shut until he opened them again. He was panting, but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds, because Eurus was still there, talking to him.

" _Yes, it will come to you. I will walk you through it all, don't worry. I just need you to do something for me first_."

"What..." Sherlock paced around, wanting to move, to do something, but feeling incapable of doing so. He wanted to hang up, but he couldn't either, could he? "What do you want?"

" _I will text you an address. You need to go there right now. Do you understand, Sherlock?_ "

"Why should—”

" _If you don't go_ ," she interrupted him, and only now did he realise her voice was louder, almost commanding, despite the still flat tone. " _We can't play. And if we don't play, we won't know who wins. You wouldn't want that, would you?_ "

"Where's Mycroft?"

Instead of answering, Eurus started humming. It was as eerie as if she had been threatening him. For some reason, he thought he knew the tune, but he couldn't remember it. He felt short of breath, Mycroft's house too small for him all of sudden. Eurus wasn't stopping. She was getting into his head, with that awful song, the humming that wouldn't stop, that made him sick—

Sherlock hang up, trying to breathe.

If he had any doubts about having a sister before, they were gone now. He knew her. But the truly scary thing was that she knew him, too.


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you sure about this?” Mary asked again. The first time she asked it, they had been driving towards the air base she had read about on Mycroft’s files, and they had discussed for a while the pros and cons of doing it. As much as John would like to just go home and let it go, he couldn’t. Not while there was a chance he was still being targeted – just the thought of bringing the danger any closer to Rosie was enough to make his blood go cold. And it’s not like they could just turn their backs on it now; if Mycroft was truly missing (and everything told them he was), then maybe they could help. Sherlock wasn’t answering his phone anymore, which wasn’t surprising but never ceased to be annoying. He should be there. It was his brother, after all. But if he wanted to go solo, John wasn’t the one going after him.

After all, he tried to convince himself, it was easier to stay away. For all of them.

“Yeah,” he replied, taking quick steps towards the air base, Mary right beside him. “You? It’s ok if you don’t want to do this.”

She smirked at him, not saying anything, which already told him what her answer was. They walked side by side, each one looking to one side of the road. Before they could reach the arm barrier, though, John turned his face to her and muttered, barely moving his lips, “Let me handle it.”

Mary looked at him, cautious. “What are you going to do?”

“Pull some strings,” he said, smiling and raising his eyebrows. He was far less confident about it than he wanted to let it show, and he knew she wanted to object by the way she stared at him for a second, but by then they had reached the gates. Standing inside the security cabin, a young officer looked both of them up and down.

"Wrong entrance, the private port is over there," the man pointed to the gate a few meters from them, clearly suspicious.

"Yes, we are aware, officer. I'm looking for the person in command of this station?"

He looked over their shoulders and saw nothing, so he turned his gaze back to them. "And who are you?"

"Captain John Watson," John took his wallet out of his jacket and showed him his credentials quickly enough that the guy wouldn't have the time to think it through. "Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

The man looked at them again, still not sure, but confused enough to hesitate before saluting John. “Sir.” He couldn't be more than 25 years old, and he looked over his shoulder once, deciding what to do. "What is it you want with the Lieutenant, Captain Watson?"

"I am not allowed to disclose it, officer. But it involves one of the helicopters in your base."

Mary glanced at John when the guy wasn't looking. If she was surprised or concerned, she didn't let it show. Starting to lose his patience, the guy said, "Wait here, please."

He picked up the desk phone and called someone inside. A couple of minutes later, a corpulent, tall man walked out of the building and towards the cabin, introducing himself as Lieutenant Williams. John did the same thing he had done – flashed him his wallet, saluted him, and then repeated what he had said to the first man. “We have orders to take one of your helicopters from the base.”

The man stared at them with half a smile on his red face. He wasn’t buying it, John knew very well. “There’s a procedure for that, Captain.”

“Except that this time it’s a direct order, Lieutenant. From Mycroft Holmes.”

That did it. The smile vanished from the man’s face as he realised his mistake. The name not only meant something to him, but it _scared_ him too. John was surprised; he was hoping Mycroft’s name would open doors, but not exactly make people afraid of them. Mary was quick to complete, “He’s expecting us. Sooner rather than later.”

“Of course,” the Lieutenant complied, gesturing to the man inside the cabin to open the way for them. “I apologize, I wasn’t informed—“

“The sooner the better, Lieutenant.” John added, following the man inside. He and Mary didn’t exchange a glance, knowing how imperative was for them to leave before there were any more questions.

And it worked. They were shown to a black helicopter parked the closest to the door they went through. It was a beautiful, seemingly new model... Completely empty. John hadn’t thought that through. He turned to the Lieutenant, standing there with his hands behind his back, but Mary was faster.

“Enough fuel for an hour flight?” The man nodded, and Mary smiled gently. “Thank you, Lieutenant Williams.” And then she opened the door and climbed up.

Well. That solved the problem, then. John desperately wanted to ask her if she actually knew how to pilot, but he didn’t want to blow their cover. He was also sure she wouldn’t bluff like that if she didn’t have anything to show for it. And he was right. As soon as they had dismissed the man – with the reassurance that Mycroft would be very pleased with his services – they closed the doors and Mary started working the controls in front of her, pulling her phone out of her pocket and checking the coordinates she and Janine had nicked from Mycroft’s files.

“Can you fly us there, then?”

“Sure, no problem. It’s been a while, but...” She paused as she clicked a few more buttons, and soon the rotors had started above them. “There you go.”

She had her headset on already, and John started to work his, but she stopped him. "Don't put it on just yet. Do you think we should call Greg?"

"What for?"

"For Rosie. Ask him to keep an eye on her. Take her with him, if he can."

John watched Mary's face. No matter how good she was at keeping a straight face, he knew her, and he could see the worry in the creases of her forehead. They knew the risks of doing this, had discussed it on the way here. Even so they had walked into that place and were about to fly away, about to meet God only knew what. Rosie was with Mrs. Hudson, but they were aware there was only so much she could protect her from. Especially at 221B.

"All right," John grabbed his phone and dialled Greg's number. It rang for a while, and he watched Mary working the controls while he waited.

_"John?"_

"Greg, hello," he cleared his throat, knowing there was no right way to do this. "I need to ask you a favour. We do, actually. Mary and I."

_"Yeah, of course, anything,_ " Lestrade said.

"We're… We're taking off somewhere, and that might just be a few hours, but could you please keep an eye on Rosie? Just… Just be around her. You can take her home, if you want, I know it's a lot to ask but…"

" _It's not, it's fine, but where are you? Is everything ok? Donovan found the body of your therapist. The real one. She wanted to ask you a few questions."_

"Jesus... No, yeah, no problem, it's just… We're working on it too, but we’re not sure how long will it take, so…" John's voice died on his throat. Mary's hand slipped on his, holding it, giving him the strength to keep going. "We just need to make sure Rosie is safe. For now, I mean. She's at Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson."

_"All right. Ok. Don't worry, I'll drop by right now. But are you sure you don't need help? Anything?"_

"No, it's… Be with Rosie, that's all the help we need right now. Thanks, Greg."

_"Yeah, no problem. Call if you need anything."_

"We will."

" _And hey,_ " Lestrade said just before John hang up. " _Try to stay safe, you two_."

"We will. Thanks again."

When he slipped his phone into his jacket, Mary smiled at him and retrieved her hand. She pointed at one of the screens in front of them. "The coordinates. It's about one hour from here."

John cleared his throat again, slipping his headset on. He was worried. About Rosie, about their friends, about Mary, about himself. About Sherlock. He wondered if this wasn't something Sherlock would do. Jump into danger like that, blindly. But then again, he reasoned with himself, that was something John Watson would do, too.

He only wished he could have talked to Sherlock first.

 

* * *

 

The address led Sherlock to a tall building, a steel and glass construction that seemed almost translucent in the sunset. It was located in a quiet street; Sherlock remembered seeing the first signs of construction there, not two years ago. He hadn't been to that precise street in a while, but he knew the building had been there, for months now. It looked like every other building in central London. All the lights were out, and there was no doorman or guard anywhere in sight. Sherlock was hesitating, he realised. The address Eurus had given him was very specific - it instructed him to go to the seventh floor - but he tried first to rule out the possibility of it being an immediate trap.

He didn't know what Eurus wanted of him. He had no way of knowing if she was luring him into his death, but he didn't believe it would be just that easy. She had been around him, and around John, for that matter, long enough to have had plenty of opportunities to kill him. Yet she didn't. Death was definitely still on the table, but not as an execution.

Maybe she had used that card already, with Culverton Smith. It was different, now.

His phone vibrated in his hand, and he saw he had a FaceTime call, again from Mycroft's phone. He accepted it. The screen went black before it blinked, and a face Sherlock knew very well appeared on it.

" _Surprise. You didn't think I would just disappear, did you?"_ Moriarty looked exactly like he did 4 years ago. Sherlock was about to reply, insanely, given that he knew somehow that he would be talking to a recording, when the call ended.

Eurus and Moriarty had been working together, then. This whole time? Or for how long? _So you did miss me_. What did any of this mean? Sherlock understood the message - Eurus was rushing him in. He wasn't expecting to meet Moriarty inside that building; he was sure Moriarty was dead. But he still felt the dread of walking inside the unknown, the unexpected. He was walking into it blindly.

He strode into the building easily enough, all the doors unlocked. There was no elevator, so he took the stairs. All the while, as he climbed up step after step, stitches starting to itch, he kept wondering if he shouldn't have answered John's calls. If he shouldn't call him now, ask him to at least step away. But it was useless, because he knew, and John himself knew, too, that they weren’t in a place where Sherlock could just give him orders like that. It would backfire, most certainly. And since John had been personally targeted, he would want to get to the bottom of this, whether Sherlock liked it or not. Which he didn’t - Sherlock couldn’t guarantee John would come out unscathed from that. Keeping Eurus busy was the best way to get her attention off John, at least for now. Until he had more to go on by, and understood the situation better.

The seventh floor was lit up from more than just the sun outside. The walls, made of glass, gave the perfect view of London, with few buildings around the one Sherlock was currently in. It was a spacious, wide floor, with no furniture or divisions in sight expect from a wooden table and a TV installed to the east side of the room. Sherlock scanned the place as quickly as he dared because right there, on the screen, he could see her. Eurus.

Her hair was dark, just like his, and it was long, unruly, falling like curtains over both sides of her face. Her eyes were unmoving, staring straight at the camera, and he was taken aback at how similar was the colour to his own eyes. Paler, but similar enough for him to wonder how he could have forgotten her. How could he not remember her? He was a mere meter away from the screen when the image suddenly moved, and a flat voice came out from the speakers.

" _Hello, Sherlock._ "

It was a live transmission. He located the cameras all around him, suspended on the walls, lying on the floor. He counted five and turned back to the TV, spotting a modem right underneath it. Eurus was smiling, a smile that didn't reach her unblinking eyes.

"I'm here. I did what you asked me. Tell me where Mycroft is."

" _You care about him_." Eurus studied him, then tutted. " _Of course you do. That’s little Sherlock. Always so caring_."

"What do you want?"

Eurus smirked. " _Oh, I already have what I want, silly. I’m doing a favour_."

"A favour?"

" _Yes. Think, Sherlock. It's not that hard._ "

Sherlock was impatient, but he tried not to get angry. He was being toyed, that much was clear. But why? What was her goal? He had very little to work on, as of now, and no matter how worried and confused he felt, he had to keep his head clear for this. He needed data. So he did what he had always done – suppressed it. Kept his mind open to the facts, and to the present. It was harder now, and he knew why, but he tried anyway, willing himself to focus.

"What are you talking about?"

" _Jim Moriarty_." Eurus looked away from the camera, smiling, reminiscing. She suddenly looked back to the camera - to Sherlock. " _Do you remember when you first met? At that pool?_ "

"Yes," Sherlock said, grinding his teeth.

" _Jim told you you had a heart. But you knew that already. Didn’t you?_ "

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't have to. Eurus' smile grew bigger.

" _It took you a week to realise your brother was missing. Really, what kind of brother are you?_ " Eurus' face grew cold. " _I know the kind of brother you are. Do you remember me now?_ "

Sherlock was trying, had been ever since he had left Mycroft’s house, but he couldn't remember more than a few bits of unrelated flashes. The heat, the water, _so much water_. The barking that he related to Redbeard.

"I don't. I swear, I can't remember it. I remember Redbeard, that's all."

" _Oh, so you do remember something. What happened to Redbeard, Sherlock?_ "

The sun was setting. Sherlock didn't want to look back to the screen, but he forced himself to, swallowing dry. "They put him down."

" _Who is they?_ "

"My parents.” He corrected himself. “Our parents."

" _That's what they told you, yes. But there's something missing. Come on, Sherlock. What is it?_ "

Sherlock was getting restless. He didn't want to be there, playing that game, staring at the face of the woman who called herself his sister, despite him not remembering ever seeing her before a month ago.

"What is your connection to Moriarty?"

" _Please try to focus, we're discussing our childhood now._ " Eurus leaned back, resting against a leather chair. Sherlock didn't know where she was, but he could see the sky behind her, lighter than the sky he could see through the glass. She wasn't in the building, then. Maybe not even in London. She leaned in again, abruptly, face closer to the camera than before. " _I think you need an incentive_."

She pressed something on the keyboard in front of her, and her face vanished from the screen. In its place appeared a circular room with black – no, dark grey - walls. There was a bed, a toilet, and a sink, but nothing else. The room had a sterile look to it, as if it was devoid of anything that resembled a real room. It looked more like a cage. A cell. And sitting there, on the floor, was a figure Sherlock recognised immediately. Mycroft was sitting with his back against the wall, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had taken his jacket and shoes off. The jacket was folded on top of the bed, and the shoes were neatly arranged close by. This wasn’t like him, but that was the last thing on Sherlock’s mind as he took in the image before his eyes. Mycroft looked emaciated. The camera was too far away for him to get an idea about the colour of his skin but Sherlock could see he was unwell. Weakened, given his posture, and the way his chest heaved with every breath. There was no doubt about it: he had been there a while now. And he was starving.

Sherlock felt his own stomach turning at the image. He couldn't watch this, but he couldn't turn away, either. "Eurus,” he called. "Eurus, talk to me."

The screen went back to Eurus. Sherlock took a small step back, surprised, trying not to let Eurus realise how shaken up he was. But she was watching him attentively.

" _Why did they put Redbeard down?_ "

"I don't know," Sherlock mumbled, stumbling across his memories, trying to get to whatever it was she was referring to. "I don't remember, he was an old dog—”

" _Wrong. He was barely five. They brought him home a year after I was born. On your second birthday."_

"What do you want me to say?" Sherlock snapped. "Tell me, I can't just force my brain to recover memories I don't have."

" _I want you to remember. I want you to say it. Tell me what happened to Redbeard_."

Sherlock stared at her. What if he wasn't the damaged one? What if she was delusional, thinking that, for some reason, she was one of the Holmes siblings? Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable… But was it really that impossible? The eyes, the hair. The brain. The scattered memories. How unthinkable would it be to believe she was telling the truth?

"I don't…" He closed his eyes, remembering how it felt to hug Redbeard. The way he smelled funny after a rainy day, and how Mum would complain every time the dog went inside the house. He wasn't allowed in, because his father had a mild allergy, but it didn't stop Redbeard from going in, spreading mud everywhere, even inside their room… He had a vague memory of losing him, but he couldn't remember the day, or recall if he ever had the chance to say goodbye.

Eurus started murmuring, and Sherlock opened his eyes. She was singing, and he had to strain his ears to listen to the words.

" _...succour me now the east winds blow, sixteen by six, brother, and under we go."_

Ponytails. A laugh, a children's laugh. A girl.

" _Be not afraid to walk in the shade..._ "

Sherlock felt his chest tightening. Despite the glass walls, despite London being just outside, so close to him, he wanted to bolt, to get out of there, away from the song, away from Eurus. He knew the song. He knew the lyrics, even. He tripped over his own feet trying to take a step back. "You..."

" _Save one, save all, come try..._ "

"You killed him, didn't you?"

" _My steps, five by seven..._ "

Eurus was singing staring at him, unblinking eyes and emotionless tone making it more unreal than it already was to Sherlock. He tried not to bend over himself, but he was panting now, flash after flash coming back to him. A second room, next to his and Mycroft's. A fifth chair, occupied, by the dinner table. He opened the top button of his shirt, doing his best efforts to control the attack trying to overpower him.

" _Life is closer to heaven_."

"You killed Redbeard." Eurus finally stopped singing. She waited for him to continue. "You were there. You… You killed him, and left him to die."

" _No, Sherlock. You did. You couldn't solve the puzzle, and Redbeard died because of you_."

Sherlock's breath was getting under control. He willed his head to clear enough for him to think, to make sense of it all. His memories were still fuzzy, but he remembered the song now. He remembered the girl in the ponytails, how he had looked all over the place for his dog, the song haunting him every time he came back home.

"Why?" He asked, forcing himself to stand up straight and look at her, at the screen.

" _Because I wanted to play. You wouldn't let me."_

Sherlock didn't have an answer for that. He barely remembered her, how could he possibly remember playing with her or not? But if what she was saying was true - if she had killed the family dog because he refused to play with her - how did it escalate to this? How had he erased her from his memory, and where was she now?

" _But we will play now, and it will be so much fun, Sherlock_."

And he finally understood what he was doing there.

 

* * *

 

 

Mary knew what she was doing, but it had been a while since she had had to pilot, and the model they were flying was a new one; she took some time figuring out the new features. They had been in silence most of the time, but she could see John had something going through his head. He wanted to talk, but maybe not to her. She suspected he was getting anxious with Sherlock's silence, and maybe Harriet's, too. She did think it was weird for his sister to vanish like that, but she didn't say anything. It would just make matters worse, and John was worried enough as it was.

They were getting closer to their destiny, an island in the middle of nowhere, as far as Mary could tell from the coordinates. Maybe in a few minutes they would get to see it, and then they would get into action, and things would fall into place. That always worked, for both of them. And knowing Rosie was as safe as she could be gave Mary a bit of a piece of mind, just enough to pay attention to John’s silence.

"Do you want to talk?" She asked him. They were wearing the headphones, so her voice came as slightly robotic.

John glanced at her but looked away. "What about?"

"Anything," she made as if to shrug but the seat belt rendered it useless. "Have you talked to Sherlock?"

"He's not answering his phone."

"I don't mean now. I mean about the night at the aquarium. When, you know," she gestured wildly with one hand. "The thing with Vivian Norbury happened."

John turned to her now, frowning. "You mean the night you were shot."

"Yeah, that."

“No. No, we haven’t talked.”

He had turned away from her again, and was staring out. In the years she had known him - especially the years he had been grieving - she had learned enough about his body language to understand this wasn’t easy for him. Not that it ever was when it came to talking about that. About _him_. But they needed to, didn’t they? They couldn’t keep this up. John, sabotaging himself. Sherlock, accepting anything and everything John decided. Mary, patiently waiting. That wouldn’t work, and hadn’t been working for a while now.  

This wasn’t going to be easy, and honestly, she didn’t want it to be. Easy meant unimportant. And that was the last thing John was to her. She braced herself.

“I think we should get a divorce.”

That got a reaction. John turned to her, surprised. She thought he would question her, but if he wanted to, he decided against it. Nodding, he cleared his throat. “So that’s it, then?”

They were in silence for a moment. Mary waited.

“I’m sorry,” John took his headset off for a while as he brushed his face. He put it back on to say, “I shouldn’t have done it. Cheated on you. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t nice of me.”

“No, it wasn’t nice.”

“You saved me, Mary. I owe you a lot more than this.”

Mary smiled, albeit a bit sadly. “I owe you a lot, too, you know. Maybe we can call it even?”

“How is it _even_?” John laughed ruefully. “It’s not-- Mary, I’m...” He stopped himself, breathing hard, and tried again, softer this time. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t apologise for that, John.”

John looked at her, but she didn’t explain. She didn’t have to, because she was fairly certain he knew what she meant. Even if he didn’t want to acknowledge it.

“Yeah,” he sniffed hard, looking out the window. “Well, I still want to. For everything else. I suppose I was trying to make you hate me, if that makes sense. Or trying to find more reasons to hate myself, I don’t know.”

Mary didn’t say anything. She wanted to let him have it, to say anything that came to mind, using the opportunity to say everything that he always wanted to say without fear of being overheard, or interrupted. That was the best way to do this, she figured.

“You were supposed to be different. I meant that,” John said in a low voice. “But this is not me blaming you, this is on me, and has always been, and you know that. You were there, Mary. So you know that. I tried to trick myself into... I don’t know, believing, maybe. That I was better than this.”

“I know, love.”

“But I’m not. I’m really fucking not.” He laughed shortly, almost pained. “Sorry. I know this isn’t the time for this.”

“John...”

“I know, it’s not as if there _is_ a right time for it, but I think we should—“

“John, shut up.” John turned to her, shocked, but she was watching the screen between them. The radar. She pointed at it, at the two dots blinking closer and closer to them, one coming from the west and the other from the north.

A voice interrupted both of them, coming into the headsets.

" _Five-Seven-Zero-Sierra-India, you are entering restricted airspace. I repeat, you are now entering restricted airspace. You are instructed to return._ "

Mary and John looked at each other. Convincing an officer that they were following Mycroft's orders was one thing, but if Mycroft was being held hostage at this island, at Sherrinford, they couldn't use the same trick.  

The voice came through their headsets again, and Mary brought the radio to her lips. "This is Zero-Sierra-India requesting an emergency landing due to technical issues, over."

John looked at her, puzzled, and she shook her head. No, she had no idea if that was a good idea, but it was the only one. They stared ahead, watching as a small island came into view. It was basically rock and sand, but the really astonishing thing was the fortress on top of it. A massive, jarring building that seemed to be carved out of the stone itself. The two helicopters they had seen on the radar came into view at the same time, flanking them from both sides. Mary was about to repeat the message into the radio when the voice said, " _Landing authorized on the beach. Over_."

"Thank God," John breathed, eyeing the helicopter on his side.

Mary started to manoeuvre to get to the beach on the northern end of the island. They had minutes, maybe less, to come up with a plan. She felt her mouth dry. "John, listen to me. We need to drop the innocent act and say we're here on someone else's orders."

He protested immediately but she interrupted him. They didn't have much time left. "If we say we're having technical difficulties they might try to help and discover our helicopter is working just fine. They actually may have recognised it by now, and that would be disastrous. How do we explain we're flying one of their helicopters?"

John didn't answer. She was now hovering the sand, preparing to land, and they could see armed personnel wearing black suits and grey bennies a few meters away. "Follow my lead. If we get separated, I'll try to get back to the helicopter."

They had landed. Mary stopped the rotor and took off her headset, and so did John. He glanced at her, worried but decided, and nodded.

"Careful," he said. She nodded back.

They hopped off. There were men on them in the blink of an eye, all carrying semi-automatics and long distance riffles. Running away and trying to hide was out of question. Mary waited for the one in the middle to catch up to them, his voice drowned out by the slowing rotor blades.

"Identities, please."

"We’re not having technical problems, actually," Mary said right off the bat, feeling John stiffen next to her. He didn't look at her, or look surprised, for that matter, which was exactly how she needed him to react. "That was just so we could talk face to face."

The man's grip on his weapon seemed to tighten. The men behind him held their guns higher, assumed a more vigilant position, but there was no visible order to shoot them right there and then. He looked both of them up and down, "This is a private island. Non-authorised civilians are not—”

"We're not civilians. We're here on Love’s behalf."

It didn't seem to have an effect on the man. He paused, the sound of rotor blades finally gone, and brought his right sleeve to his mouth.

"This is SHORE-1..." He said and took a few steps back, turning slightly away from them so they couldn't hear what he said next. He kept his eyes trained on them as he spoke into his wrist and waited for an answer. He nodded once and said something else, walking back to them.

"Come with me."

He turned his back on them, a clear sign that he either wasn't aptly trained or that whatever his orders were, they indicated he should trust them. Mary hoped it was the first one, because the second would just mean they were being expected and were walking into a possible trap. She looked at John. He was frowning, fists clenching. She knew he was armed, just like she was, but she wasn't expecting to actually walk into the place without a proper security check.

But she was really hoping those guards weren't as well-trained as they seemed. If only she could walk into the fortress with her gun, things would feel a bit less terrifying.

 


End file.
